


Later

by galacticproportions



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Also Sexual Intimacy, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, New Relationship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, cheerful nonmonogamy, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/pseuds/galacticproportions
Summary: Two mornings, one when they're new, and one when they're not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts), [orchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchis/gifts).



> I don't know what this is. It isn't all that porny, and it doesn't have a plot as such. I know how it happened--gloss's musings on hair and thighs and so on, impeccably sexy and tender as per usual. I also know why I wrote it: to show how love can grow, and grow up, with the people who enact it, how rawness can mellow and anxiety can give way to trust. Anyway, this is for my buddies gloss and orchis, whose visions inspire me and whose kindness sustains me.

Morning. Awake. Shit. And Finn's side of the bed is empty. Poe knows, rationally, that Finn has stuff to do and that him being out of bed doesn't mean that he's thought better of what _they've_ been doing. Of everything that has Poe sore this morning and already aching for more, everything that makes the bed smell like spunk and sweat—he really needs to wash the sheets—and excitement and reassurance.

Relief spreads in his chest when he sees that Finn is still here, sitting on a crate—their room's one chair has a laundry problem—in front of the mirror, which Poe never sees him so much as glance in except when he's shaving. His skin gleams coolly in the early light from their little window.

“Wha' you doin',” Poe says.

Finn turns, his smile tender and brilliant. “Hey. Fixing my hair.”

“Fixing what about it?” That doesn't make sense. “Fixing it how?” He sits up, clutching the blankets. Finn's fingers are hovering and busy, making his halo of hair into many close, soft, half-separated little clouds; his gaze is a little unfocused, as though he's trying to see through the top of his head. “My hair's getting—there's a lot of it. They always used to put us in a row, you know, and cut it for us. I haven't had time to get it cut here, so Dakia said I should try this.”

“Dakia always looks good.”

“That's what I thought.” About a third of Finn's head is done now, and Poe can already tell how good this is going to look on him. “It's kinda nice to do. Soothing.” He has to lean forward to get a better angle on the mirror, and his ass and thighs flex against his sleep pants, to the point where Poe has to breathe deeply. “I think I've touched your hair more than mine, before now.” He pulls out and twists, pulls out and twists.

By the time it became obvious even to Poe that Finn not only wanted to touch him but actually wanted to _keep_ touching him, that his luck so far was holding, Poe had spent a fair amount of time making it clear just how much he wanted Finn's hands in his hair, stroking and pulling and using it for leverage, soothing or tightening to the point of pain and past it. Finn's learned Poe the way he's learned so many of the facets of his new life, attends to him like he's a tibanna trade route or a game of one-eyed sabacc or the plants in the hydroponic gardens.

Poe wants to be different, wants to be _more,_ and sometimes, when he looks up with his mouth full of dick and spit and sees Finn's face abstracted, abandoned, caught in the middle of saying his name, when Finn touches Poe's hand to show him something he's noticed in a report, he thinks he is. But one of the things _he's_ learned is that Finn asks for what he wants; Poe figures if he wanted his hair played with, he'd say so.

And just when he's walked himself all the way to the end of that thought process—and mind you, this is pretty damn deep thinking for early morning and no caf yet—Finn says, “You wanna try?”

“Me? I don't wanna mess it up. You seem like you have a handle on it, it's looking really good.”

“Yeah, you, dumbass, who else?” But he says it so warmly that Poe sits up, flexes his fingers, frowns at Finn's scalp.

“Do one more for me so I can see?” he asks, and watches Finn's thumb and forefinger gather, twist and pat. Watches, too, the bunching of muscles in Finn's shoulder and back and arm, the shifts of bicep and trapezius and deltoid, and is tempted to ask for another demonstration, but: “Okay, I think I get it.”

“Do the ones at the back for me,” Finn says. “It still hurts to get my arm back there, and I can't see what I'm doing.”

Finn's hair is springy, lively, eager to cling to itself. It smells nice, too, sweet but not overly sweet, like the natural smell of some kind of plant; Poe's seen him put oil on it from a little jar, also a present from Dakia a few standard weeks back. She and Finn had a tentative fling when he was first finding his way around, Poe knows, but they seem to have settled into swapping grooming tips.

Finn's back is straight—that's what he defaults to—but his shoulders are relaxed, and when Poe gets the hang of getting the little clouds of hair to hold and can stop concentrating quite so hard, he can read this as contentment. “Am I pulling too hard?” he asks, fishing.

“No, it feels even better when you do it. You should do it more. I mean, when you're not fixing it, you could still play with it, like I do for you. Why don't you?”

“I don't know. It felt kinda... I don't know. Intimate? Let's go with intimate.”

“You had your whole tongue in my ass about six hours ago.”

“Yeah, but you _asked_ me to do that.”

“Oh,” Finn says in his most considering tone, and then after a beat, “okay. Well, I want you to do this, too. Sometimes.”

“Let me redo these first ones,” Poe says when he's done the whole back of Finn's head. “They don't look as good as the ones I did at the end.” Really he just wants to continue the soft rhythm, keep taking care with Finn, keep touching him in this way that makes no demands. Eventually Finn says, “Okay, that's gotta be good enough, I still need to get dressed, and nobody's gonna be talking to the back of my head anyway.”

“What is it today?”

“Budget people talking to strategy people. They just want me there because of the report I put together on those freighter manifests.”

“Oh, the money-laundering thing?” And dammit, Finn smiles _again,_ Poe sees it in the mirror. Finn says, “Yeah,” like he's pleased that Poe remembered. Provoking that smile is quickly moving up the list of Poe's greatest points of pride. But it's drooping a little at the edges now: “They act like I'm so _impressive,_ ” Finn says. “But like they're surprised that I am.”

“Gross,” Poe says intelligently.

“General Organa says if they want to be impressed. I should impress them.”

Poe wishes he'd thought of saying that, instead of what he did say. “She's usually right about things like that. Want me to do your scar real quick?”

“Yeah, actually, that'd be great.”

Poe digs his fingers into another little jar—the bedside crate (not to be confused with the sitting crate) is starting to look like a shelf in the dispensary—and rubs in the slow patterns he's already accustomed to, it's amazing how quickly he got used to this, knowing where to press hard and where to stay light, where to smooth over and where to dig down. Muscle heals slower than skin, but he almost never makes Finn wince now. He works diagonally from just below the shoulderblade to just above the hip, and then he's at the waistband of Finn's sleep pants and he hesitates—his heart in his mouth, like a kid!--and says, “How _much_ time do you have?”

He tries not to look like he's watching for Finn's expression, but Finn's eyes in the mirror unequivocally meet his, and he feels like an ass, even when the corner of Finn's mouth lifts and he says, “Enough time.”

So Poe slides his hand down and down, over smooth skin and the heat trapped there, the trace of sweat at the top of Finn's crack, around Finn's side and down into the sharp cut of muscle where stomach meets thigh. Over the swell and torsion of the thigh itself, down to cup Finn's balls and weigh them and hear him hiss out breath. Poe kisses just behind Finn's ear as he brings his hand up and around and begins to stroke slowly, and Finn groans and buries his face in his hands.

Poe's actually much better with his mouth, ask anyone, but you work with what you have, and what he has at the moment is Finn's perfect cock in his grip, hot and hard under silken skin, beautiful to the touch as to the eye. He tells himself he's being considerate of Finn's schedule as he speeds up and twists and roughens, leaving finesse behind, as the triangle of Finn's elbows and back and thighs tenses and shudders and small noises seep out between his fingers.

“Can I see you?” Poe says in his ear.

Finn pries his hands away and plants them on his knees, revealing—in the mirror—an expression soft, twisted and wild, mouth half open. A guttural cry escapes him, and he convulses and spills hot all over Poe's hand.

Poe kisses the same spot behind Finn's ear, hard as a rock himself now and a kind of buzzing feeling behind his eyes, like watching Finn come has left a mark there. Finn leans back against him before he's braced for it and he almost falls over, but catches himself with his free hand.

“Okay,” Finn says, “now I really _do_ have to change.” Poe takes his other hand back, thinks about licking his fingers but the moment has passed—Finn is already loping across the room to where his day clothes hang neatly from a piece of twine strung across the corner—so he wipes it on the sheet instead. “What about you?” Finn asks as he buttons his shirt.

Poe shrugs, even though Finn's not actually looking at him. Maybe acting like it's no big deal will help. “Hand still works.”

Finn crosses the room again, the only person Poe has ever seen look attractive—mouth-watering, even—in a shirt and no pants. He stoops and kisses Poe's forehead. “Let me take care of you later,” he says. “Okay?”

In wartime, you don't say _forever_ and you don't say _always._ They're nowhere near saying anything like that, anyway, Poe wouldn't presume it even in peacetime. But you can say _later,_ and mean it, and hope it can slip past the sensors of bad luck. “Later,” Poe agrees, and doesn't even try to keep it from sounding like a promise.

 

*

 

Finn's side of the bed is empty, even though Poe said, in so many words, “Wake me up before you leave.” No one listens to him. He rolls over, to pout in a more comfortable position and maybe probably definitely go back to sleep, and sees that Finn is still here, fully dressed and twisting out his hair. “Thought you had a meeting with the delegation this morning?”

“I still do, but they're delayed on the way between the hyperlane exit and here. Something about space debris. Thought I'd make myself look nice.”

“You already,” Poe says, at the same time as Finn says, “Nic _er,_ ” and they laugh.

The sides and back of Finn's hair are lasered short, the soft twists forming a kind of crown. He's been wearing it like this for a while now. Poe loves it. He would also love it shaved, or gathered into longer locks, or in the even layer it formed when Finn first took his helmet off in the Finalizer and the future that had shut down opened out again, impossibly, gloriously. Poe sits up and puts his arms around Finn's waist, leans his cheek against Finn's shoulder. “Mmm,” he says.

“Mmm,” Finn agrees, pressing back, taking one of Poe's hands from his belly and lifting it to his lips. “Too bad we don't have a little more time this morning.”

“Yeah, too bad. And you're seeing Ensor tonight?” Ensor's a late recruit to the Resistance, a systems analyst, and he and Finn have been fooling around periodically for a few standard months as the General and her aides hammer out round after round of negotiations and treaties.

“I was gonna, but--” Finn shrugs, a shift of the world in Poe's arms. “I think I'd rather come back here. If you're gonna be here, if you didn't make plans--”

Poe feels a brightness in his chest, a loosening. “I can be here,” he says. “You know. If what you want is your dick sucked with _real_ dedication and a lot of hard-won expertise--”

Finn twists around, a range of motion neither of them thought he'd ever get back, and gets an arm around Poe, too. “I can get that lots of places,” he says, mouth level with the scar on Poe's temple. “I'm talking about being here.”

Poe leans into it, molds against him, twines around him. “Okay,” he says. “Good. If you're here, I'll be here too.” And isn't it something, to be able to say that with better-than-average odds that he's telling the truth?

“Good.”

“I'm just saying, if you _are_ here, I can put in some serious time on the head of your dick and that spot right underneath, I feel like I've been neglecting that recently--”

“You haven't--”

“--and then maybe I'll just move off and make an exhaustive study of your thighs for awhile, I _know_ I haven't spent enough time there, just kiss along the line there—what're those muscles called? Quadriceps? Those—until you're begging me to take you in, and then,” but he has to stop, because Finn has sort of swung him around and is kissing him hard, with a grip on his jaw.

“Have a nice meeting,” Poe says sweetly when his mouth is free again.

Finn snorts and shoves at Poe's chest lightly, and Poe obliges by falling back dramatically on the bed. “Later,” Finn promises, obviously trying to sound menacing but not really making it and tossing a grin over his shoulder as he heads out, so bright and sweet that Poe just lies there thinking about it for a while. And then he gets up, bathes and dresses and prepares to meet his own obligations, the prospect of peace looming fresh and strange and just a little terrifying at the borders of his mind.

 

 

 


End file.
